


With Joy

by alltheprettylittlewolves



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Jon Snow and Sansa Stark Are Not Related, Lyanna is Not a Stark, Modern Westeros, Soulmates, Two Shot, but they don't know they're not related at first
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-02-13 09:06:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21491806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alltheprettylittlewolves/pseuds/alltheprettylittlewolves
Summary: By mutual, unspoken agreement, Jon spends years avoiding Sansa. Yes, she’s his soulmate, but to say it’s complicated is putting it mildly. They are finally brought together by a gift from Sam.Written for Jonsa Week 2019, Day 2: Tropes
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 115
Kudos: 424
Collections: JonsaWeek2019





	1. Before

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn’t sure how to tag this one, to be honest. There is no incest, but when Jon and Sansa meet and realise they are soulmates, they believe themselves to be related (they aren’t). I feel like if you can handle the idea of canon Jon and Sansa having guilty, repressed feelings for each other before they discover that they’re really cousins, you can probably handle this fic.
> 
> There will be two parts to this, and the E rating won't come into it until part two.

This could not be happening. A breath snagged in Sansa's throat. Soulmates were supposed to be _rare_. She had read the stories and dreamed of being one of the few—of making eye contact with someone, being flooded with their emotions, and knowing she would fall deeply in love with them—but not like this. Horror and possessiveness and revulsion and desire streamed from the boy.

_Yeah_, Sansa thought. _Same_.

In spite of their tenor, his emotions felt soft and grey, like a warm cloak he wrapped around her shoulders.

No. He would not be cloaking her. He couldn't.

Gods, they were both still staring. Someone was going to notice, and no one could know. Not ever. Turning away from the dirt-flecked bus station window, Sansa pretended to be fascinated with the tabloid headlines on the newsstand. She couldn't focus on the words, but she doubted the celebrity gossip compared to the new scandal in her own life.

Were any of them fated to be with their half-brother? She thought not.

There had to be something wrong with her.

"Jon!" her father—_their_ father—said, waving as the passengers from the 12:14 from Hardhome filed into the station.

Fear swirled around the edges of that cloak of emotions as Jon approached their little group. Sansa stared at his feet, but it was no use. Even his walk was appealing. She wanted to vomit.

"How was your trip?" Ned asked.

"Not bad," Jon said. His rough, Northern accent made her shiver. "Long."

Ned introduced each of them to Jon in turn. When he reached Sansa, Jon stared at her shoulder instead of her face.

If only Sansa had declared that she would be spending the week of Jon's visit at Jeyne's house. Catelyn would have allowed it, and then Jon could have remained a stranger who shared some of Sansa's DNA. More of an idea than a brother. _Half_-brother. Not that that made it any better. If she had known to stay away and never faced him, he could have been happy with someone else someday.

Sansa's heart clenched. Jon, who had started talking with Rickon about their dogs, faltered mid-sentence, his hand twitching as if he wanted to reach for her.

Why couldn't Ned and Jon have met up in Hardhome, alone, like they had before? Jon had survived seventeen years without knowing his half-siblings, and he'd turned out fine. None of them had known of Jon's existence until a few months ago. Not even Ned. If Jon's mother hadn't recognised Ned when they'd passed on the street, he might never have found out that he had another son.

Sansa's younger self, who had swooned and sighed over tales of true love, had always believed the connection between her parents had been instant. _Like Sansa__'s connection with Jon._ Gods.

It was true that Ned and Catelyn had a whirlwind romance. Within a few months of their first date, they'd been married and expecting Robb. But in the real version, Ned had gone on a business trip to Dorne not long after he and Catelyn had been introduced. Yes, they hadn't yet been romantically involved, but still. Instead of being so smitten with Catelyn that he couldn't even look at another woman, he'd done far more than look. Though the less Sansa thought about that, the better. Jon Snow had been the result of that _more than looking_.

Arya jabbed Sansa in the ribs with her bony elbow. "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing."

Arya scowled. She'd always been able to sniff out a lie.

* * *

Jon could still feel Sansa, even when she fled all the way across the city to a friend's house. Her ghost curled beneath his ribcage, singing her emotions to him.

Rubbing his sternum, he opened an incognito browser tab and ran a search for soulmates who were related to each other. The few results mostly centred around ancient royalty, but there had been one semi-recent set of first cousins. Searching for platonic soulmates brought no joy. By all accounts, the matched pairs always fell in love.

At least it wasn't love at first sight. It was _want_ at first sight, with the promise of love. Jon wouldn't ever let it grow into love—not for him and Sansa. He would keep his distance.

One of the Starks' dogs—the smallest one, with grey fur—sat next to his feet and rested her head on his knee.

"Hello," Jon whispered, scratching behind her ear. Her tail thumped against the ground.

His phone vibrated with a text. Mum. Shit. With all of the inappropriate soulmate drama, he'd forgotten to send her a message.

_Did you arrive OK?_

_Yeah, sorry,_ Jon replied. _I'm at Ned's house now. Don't take this the wrong way, but are you absolutely certain he's my dad?_

Please say no, Jon thought. Please, please, please.

_Yes. It couldn't be anyone else. Why? Did something happen?_

_No, Ned's great. I guess I just built it up too much in my head after spending so long wondering about my father._

That much was true. Three dots appeared on screen for a long time before her next reply came through.

_I'm sorry, love. I wish I'd been able to find him when you were born, but there's no changing that now. You'll feel a connection eventually, I bet. Just give it time._

Feeling a connection was definitely not an issue. Ugh. There had to be something wrong with him.

As Jon walked to the kitchen for a glass of water, he overheard Catelyn Stark's voice, low and tense.

"How do you know?"

A sigh answered her—one that suggested this was not the first time they'd had this conversation.

"He isn't asking for anything," Ned said, and Jon's stomach sank. "He just wants to know me. He wants to know his brothers and sisters."

"Just because he's not asking now—"

"Hey," Arya said, popping out from around a corner. Her smile was too forced; she'd heard her parents as well. "There's an arcade a few streets over, and I have a jar full of change. You in?"

It felt like the most natural thing in the world to ruffle her bird's nest hair. Jon tried to smile back.

"Yeah, I'm in."

* * *

Years passed without a single word being exchanged between Jon and Sansa, but he carried her with him, always wondering what made her feel the things that swirled around his chest.

"You all right?" Granddad Snow asked on one of their fishing weekends. "You keep doing that."

"Doing what?" Jon asked.

"Rubbing your chest. I'm supposed to be the one with heart problems. I'm the old fart."

"Oh." All at once, Jon wanted to tell his granddad about Sansa. Granddad Snow knew all about the bond between soulmates, and he wouldn't mince words. He would tell Jon if it meant there was something depraved about him. What came out instead of a confession was, "I'm fine. It's just a mosquito bite that keeps itching."

"Hmm. You should eat more garlic. Do you see them bothering me?"

"I told you there's no scientific evidence that that actually works."

A hand wave dismissed Jon's _science_. "You sure you aren't just avoiding garlic breath in case you find anyone to kiss?"

"I'm sure," Jon said. There had been no one since the moment he'd looked into Sansa's blue eyes and felt the world shift. "Who would I meet out here, anyway?"

"You never know. I met your grandmother in the middle of the woods. Well, on a road that went through the woods. She nearly ran me over with her car. Did I ever tell you about that?"

With Jon's responding grin, they fell into the familiar rhythm of one of his granddad's tall tales. Granddad Snow had a dozen different stories about how he'd met his late wife. Jon had never been able to work out which, if any, was the true version.

If Granddad Snow noticed when Jon's fingers once again twitched towards his chest, he didn't mention it.

* * *

As Jon entered his third year of uni in White Harbour, he knew via offhand comments from Arya and Robb that Sansa was beginning her first year down in King's Landing. Something felt wrong almost instantly. Sansa's initial excitement crumbled into disappointment, loneliness, and regret.

Jon lasted a week before he caved and called her.

He didn't have her number, but he knew his siblings well enough to suspect that Bran was the least likely to ask any inconvenient questions. Sure enough, when Jon sent Bran a text asking for Sansa's number, Bran supplied it without comment. Waiting for her to answer, Jon held his breath.

"Hello?"

"Sansa?" he said, as if he even needed to ask. He would know her voice anywhere. "It's Jon."

Something lifted in his chest as she sighed. He couldn't tell whether the sensation belonged to him or to Sansa.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

She sniffled. "I'd say yes, but you'd know I was lying, wouldn't you?"

"Sorry. Bloody inconvenient, that." Pausing, he allowed himself a brief smile when she laughed at his ridiculous understatement. "Do you… want to talk about it?"

"It's nothing, really. I'm just homesick, and now I have a cold, and I can't find a single shop down here that sells Old Nan's Cough Sweets."

"No Old Nan's, seriously? How do they cope?" Crossing to his bed, he lay on top of the duvet and stared up at the artex-swirled ceiling. "What else do you miss?"

"Hmm. The weather, which I never, ever thought I would. It's even hot in the mornings here. My favourite part of the day used to be my morning run. And I miss the silence. Even in the city centre of Winterfell, you can find pockets of quiet." Something rustled on her end of the connection. "It's not all bad. I've not made any real friends yet, but there are a couple of people on my course who have been nice enough."

"What are you studying?"

"Music." She said it as if bracing herself for something.

"Yeah? That makes sense."

Jon remembered Bran mentioning how many instruments Sansa played—even the high harp, which almost no one learnt anymore.

She laughed. "Not the reaction I'm used to. You're the first person to not immediately ask what I'm going to do with that."

As they kept talking, it felt like that place beneath his ribs started glowing, like she was lighting up inside.

"I should go," she said, her reluctance thrumming in his chest.

"Yeah. I know. Me too."

After ending the call, Jon grabbed his keys and wallet. Letting the distance once again spread out between the two of them would be for the best, but first, he had to do one little thing.

* * *

Sansa had never seen Jon's handwriting, but she knew who had sent the parcel. The angular, precise letters scrawled across the brown paper couldn't belong to anyone else.

Unpicking the tape, she was hit with a familiar, citrusy scent. Of _course_ he had sent her a box full of Old Nan's Cough Sweets. Jon's curiosity draped over her shoulders in response to her guilty joy, like a conversation without words.

_Thank you_, was all she said in her text.

_You__'re welcome_, he replied.

Her cold was gone, but she popped one of the cough sweets into her mouth anyway. The taste of sharp lemon laced with honey reminded her of home.

Gods, she wanted to call Jon. She wanted to spend hours talking about every inconsequential thing, discovering what it was about his soul that called to hers.

Throwing her phone into a drawer to remove the temptation, she ventured out into the stifling crowds of King's Landing. What she needed was noise and distraction.

If she still wanted to talk to Jon when she got back, she would block and delete his number.

* * *

Sansa lasted a year before she transferred to Winterfell. Maybe she should have stuck it out and kept trying (Aunt Lysa certainly thought so), but Sansa belonged in the North. She knew that now.

_You take the weather with you wherever you go_, Aunt Lysa had said when she'd heard of Sansa's decision to flee the unhappiness she'd found in King's Landing. To prove her aunt wrong, Sansa made an effort to collect bursts of brightness, like the vibrant yellow of her front door, those beautiful pockets of quiet in the city centre, and the warm moments when Jon was content.

It was strange, how familiar he felt. They had only ever really spoken that one time, but Jon was always _there_, soft and grey. Even if they could never truly know each other, she still liked to know he was happy.

Arya was starting her first term at Winterfell, so the two sisters had decided to share a flat. That, too, was an unexpected burst of brightness. For all they'd bickered as children, Arya had been one of the people Sansa had missed the most during her time in the South. Life wasn't the same without Arya's running commentary, even if Sansa could have done without the fencing gear left in the middle of the kitchen. The building allowed pets, so both Lady and Nymeria came with them, making the new place feel more like home.

Sansa was carrying a mug of milky tea to her room when it happened. Shock and sorrow crashed over her, cutting so deep she almost gasped out the word _no_. None of Jon's emotions had ever been like this. Tea sloshed over the rim of the mug.

"Arya!" she shouted. "I need your phone."

Jon's number was no longer on Sansa's own phone—hadn't been since that walk in King's Landing. It had seemed like the right choice at the time, but now he was hurting and Sansa's pulse thudded in her ears and she _had_ to make sure he was OK.

"What?" Arya said. "Why?"

"Just _give it to me_. Please."

"Gods, fine. Here."

Arya muttered some complaint, having stepped in the tea puddle in her socks, but Sansa ignored her.

Hands shaking, Sansa scrolled through Arya's contacts until she found Jon's name. _Ring. _He had to be OK. _Ring._ If he didn't answer, she would get his address from Arya and go to White Harbour. _Ring. _She would—

"Hey, Arya."

Thank the gods.

"It's Sansa," she said softly, stepping into her room and closing the door. "What's wrong?"

"I just… got some bad news. My granddad died."

"I'm so sorry."

Silence. They listened to each other breathe. Sansa flexed her fingers, hoping in vain that it would make her hands feel less empty.

For a while, she just sat with him, trying to project soothing emotions as she was blanketed by his grief. Her mouth opened and closed again and again, offers to rush to his side hovering on her tongue.

Seeing her in person wouldn't help him at all, so she smothered every word.

"Tell me about him," she said instead. "I mean, if you want to."

After a moment of hesitation, Jon said, "For a long time, he was the closest thing to a father I had. We went on these fishing trips together a few times a year, only we never caught much because he scared the fish away with his horrible singing. He never let his complete lack of musical talent stop him."

"Nor should anyone," Sansa said. "I wouldn't care if someone butchered a song I wrote, as long as they sang it with joy."

Jon made a sound that was half sigh, half chuckle. "He definitely did that—both the butchering and the joy. Apparently he wanted to sing a song at his wedding reception, but Gran vetoed that idea. He loved telling me how the two of them met, but it was a different story every time." His voice turned quiet and serious as some emotion Sansa couldn't define brushed over her shoulders. "They, err… They were soulmates."

It was the first time either of them had actually said the word to the other. Sansa chewed on her lower lip.

"I hear that's pretty rare," she whispered.

"Yeah. I always thought so, too."

As Jon told her all about one of the alleged ways his grandparents had met, Sansa started forming a sketch of his granddad in her mind, set to music.

* * *

Ned and Arya came to the funeral, the latter wearing a black dress that had to belong to someone else, given how it swallowed her. Marching up to the front, Arya placed a vase of daisies with the rest of the flowers. Sunny and simple, the daisies stood out among the the more formal arrangements. Granddad Snow would have liked them, Jon thought. He had been the sort of man who believed denim was suitable for every occasion. To him, the other flowers would have been too stuffy.

"They're from Sansa," Arya told Jon. "She said she's sorry she couldn't come."

"Oh." Jon swallowed over the lump in his throat. He should have known they were from Sansa. "Tell her thank you."

With an indecipherable expression, Arya held out a cream coloured envelope. "She said to give you this, too."

Jon didn't dare open it there, in full view of everyone. Later, safely holed up in his childhood bedroom, he discovered a sympathy card bearing an image of another bouquet of daisies. Sansa had signed it with nothing but her name, not adding any sort of personal message, but tucked inside the card were several folded pieces of paper.

Sheet music.

_For Mr Snow_, it said at the top of the first page. Sansa had written that it should be performed _with joy_. Jon's eyes stung.

He'd been a fool to believe he could walk around with her heart beating in his chest and somehow remain indifferent to her. Such a fucking fool.

_Thank you, Sansa_, he said in his text. _This is the most amazing gift anyone has ever given me._

He let it stand on its own for a minute, reluctant to add what he knew he had to say next.

_I don't think we should keep contacting each other, _he said. _I'm sorry._

She didn't reply.

* * *

Jon had never been particularly interested in learning where his ancestors came from. For most of his life, he'd been so focused on what his father might be like that he hadn't had a thought to spare for his great-great-great-whatever. Jon's friend Sam, on the other hand, had made a hobby of researching his own heritage. So much so that Sam had ordered a DNA test from the Citadel website to find out where his ancestors originated.

"I got one for you, too," Sam had said, presenting Jon with a green envelope. "If any of your family members have done tests of their own, you'll be able to see your relation to them on the website. You never know; we might be distant cousins."

At the time, Jon hadn't thought much about it. He had obediently filled the vial with saliva, completed the form, and posted the envelope. Now, staring at his results and struggling to breathe, he wished Sam's genealogy obsession had started when they were seventeen.

Some of his relatives had, in fact, done tests of their own. A second cousin here, a great aunt there. But not one among them was a Stark. Not even the man listed as his father.

_Rhaegar Targaryen_.


	2. After

_How do you know?_

Catelyn Stark's voice came back to Jon as he re-read Rhaegar Targaryen's name for the tenth time. _How do you know? _Fuck.

His first instinct was to ring Sansa. Holding the phone to his ear, he gritted his teeth as the call went straight to voicemail.

Maybe it was better if he got the full story before he talked to her, now that he took a moment to think about it. Giving her false hope over some clerical error would be devastating. With that decided, he went with his second instinct: ringing his mother.

"Who is Rhaegar Targaryen?" he asked the instant she picked up.

No answer.

"Mum?"

"How…" She cleared her throat. "Where did you hear that name?"

She knew him. Jon's breath bottled up in his chest as he let himself start to hope.

"According to the Citadel DNA test that Sam got me, Rhaegar Targaryen and I are a parent/child match," he said.

A sharp gasp came through the line, followed by, "That _motherfucker_. Oh my gods. I should have known better than to believe him."

"Believe him about what?"

"His vasectomy. Son of a bitch."

Jon clenched his jaw. "Mum. Explain, please."

"Rhaegar and I… We dated for a while, until I discovered he had a wife and two kids. Kind of a deal breaker for me. The day I found out about that and broke things off was the day I met Ned. When I realised I was pregnant with you, I wanted you to be Ned's so badly. I spent ages trying to track him down. Only, it turns out that a first name and a physical description isn't a lot to go on, so when I couldn't find him, I went to Rhaegar. That absolute arsehole told me that you couldn't possibly be his, because he'd had a vasectomy after his son was born. He even showed me a letter from a doctor confirming that his sperm count was zero, but I guess _that_ was fake."

Seven hells. This was his real father? Jon balled one hand into a fist, fingernails biting into his palm. Back before his first meeting with Ned, Jon had devoted a significant amount of head space to worrying about whether or not Ned would like him. So far, he just wanted to punch Rhaegar.

A cold nose touched his arm. Ghost. Sighing, Jon ruffled the dog's white fur.

"Jon?" his mum said. "You've gone awfully quiet."

"Just processing, I guess. Or trying to."

"I'm sorry Ned isn't your dad."

_I__'m not_, Jon thought, but didn't say. Making his excuses, he ended the call.

It was true. Not a clerical error. Had Jon not already been sitting, his knees might have buckled with the sheer force of his relief. Ghost wriggled closer as Jon exhaled a shaky breath that was halfway to a sob. Steadying himself, he tried Sansa again.

Straight to voicemail. He waited for the beep and left a message this time, telling her he had some important news and asking her to call him back. They had endured so many years apart, and he knew a bit longer wouldn't kill him, but gods. He wanted her to _know_ and to feel that suffocating weight finally lift off of her chest, too.

Arya. Arya lived with Sansa. Scrolling back up to the top of his contacts, he selected Arya's name with more force than necessary.

"Hey," she said, answering on the second ring.

"Hey. Is Sansa with you?"

"Nope. I'm on my… to Long Lake… cabin with Gendry. Why?"

If Arya was going up to Long Lake, that explained why her voice kept cutting out. That she had any signal at all on those remote mountain roads was surprising.

"I really need to talk to her, but her phone keeps going straight to voicemail," Jon said. "Don't worry about it."

"You're breaking up." Arya snorted. "What… do to piss her off? Sounds like she blocked you, mate. Did you insult… Loras guy from Three Singers? That's what got me blocked when… thirteen. Give it… days. She'll probably… over…"

The call dropped. Jon grimaced.

Blocked. That was his own fault. He'd been the one to suggest they stop contacting each other. Raking a hand through his hair, he considered his options. Writing a letter or an email or borrowing someone else's phone held far less appeal than driving to Winterfell and telling Sansa in person, but what would she want him to do?

If their positions were reversed, he knew what he would choose. He'd want her there in front of him when he found out, so he could hold her and touch her as her emotions twined together with his.

Gods, he could touch her.

Sam and Gilly would watch Ghost for him, Jon was sure. Pulse racing, he made up his mind.

* * *

Sansa paced back and forth, unable to sit still. Every time she reached the opposite wall and turned around, she had to avoid Lady, who had taken to following along with her head cocked to one side. Rolling her shoulders, Sansa tried in vain to shrug off Jon's emotions. His earlier anger had been almost entirely eclipsed by a rich blend of happiness, relief, nervousness, and… _lust_.

It wasn't as if she had never before sensed his desire, but it had always been accompanied by guilt and a hefty dose of self-loathing. There was none of that now.

Had he met someone?

Telling herself that she should be happy for him had no effect. Jealousy formed a knot in her chest, twisting tighter and tighter as Jon's good mood persisted.

He wasn't hers. She didn't even _want_ him to be hers, but the thought of feeling him fall in love with someone… Her stomach lurched.

"Come on, Lady," Sansa said, shoving her feet into her boots and bundling herself up against the cold. "We need a distraction."

Well, _one_ of them needed a distraction.

Outside, the world was muted and softened by snow. As they trudged through the white, tree-lined streets, fresh flakes swirled around them. Lady didn't mind at all; she reverted back to her puppyhood, leaping up to snap at the biggest flakes and abandoning her usual dignified air. By the time they reached Sansa's parents' house on the edge of the city, Sansa's cheeks were pink with cold. As Sansa stomped the snow from her boots and let herself into the house, Lady ran off to play with Summer and Shaggydog.

"Didn't expect to see you today," Catelyn said, standing on tiptoes to kiss Sansa's cheek. "Are you hungry? I think there's some of Dad's crumble in the kitchen, if you want any."

Sansa set her boots on the rack next to the door. "No, thanks." Even the thought of food turned her stomach at the moment. She was too keyed-up and jittery to eat.

Rickon was right where she had expected to find him: parked in front of the TV, playing one of the violent video games that Aunt Lysa always claimed would turn him into a criminal.

"Can I play?" Sansa asked, grabbing the second controller.

Rickon pushed a series of buttons that made his on-screen character body slam the AI player. "Really?"

"Yeah."

She felt the need to punch something. Hard. Better to do so virtually.

Sansa didn't know any of the combination moves that Rickon had memorised, but he directed her towards a burly, bald character that he claimed was well suited to beginners. Smashing the buttons, Sansa tried to block out everything except her mission to land at least a few hits on Rickon.

She didn't succeed in either endeavour. With each passing minute, Jon's nervousness grew. Was he getting ready to kiss this magical person who had captured his interest and made him forget his mated soul?

Over the fast music and the thump-thump-smack of Rickon's character pummelling Sansa's, the doorbell rang. Sansa stopped hammering buttons—stopped _breathing_.

It was Jon. She could feel him waiting outside, his anxiety churning. As the game predictably announced that she'd been knocked out, she stood up on shaky legs.

"I'll get it," she called. She couldn't let Jon come face to face with her in front of other people. They'd kept the secret too long to let it fall apart now.

Her parents' front door had two narrow stained glass panels, giving her a fractured, multicoloured view of him. Sansa's fingers stilled on the handle as his emotions sang through her like music. Steadying herself, she opened the door.

The soulmate she'd met five years before had been a boy, but now, a man stood on the doorstep. Jon's shoulders were broader, his jaw roughened by a stubbly beard. When she'd thought about seeing him again—and she _had_ thought about it—she'd always imagined it would be easier than the shock of that first time. She'd been so, so wrong. Jon looked at her as if she was _everything_, and _oh_, she couldn't take this.

"Hi," she said in a breathy voice she hardly recognised.

"Hello," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I was hoping I'd find you here."

Lady pushed past Sansa, sitting at Jon's feet and looking up at him adoringly when he responded to her sniff of his hand with a scratch behind her ears. Jon chuckled, his burst of amusement drowning beneath those still-constant nerves.

Sansa needed to get out of there, but her feet stayed rooted to the spot. She forced herself to speak. "I have to—"

"Ned isn't my father."

The words froze in the air between them, fragile and perfect and too beautiful to be real.

"What?" she whispered.

"My friend got me one of those DNA tests. You know, from the Citadel? The one that tells you where your family comes from and links you with living relatives who have taken the test. Here. See for yourself."

Unlocking his phone, he held it out to her. When their fingers brushed as she took it, old habits made guilt lance through her at the way her stomach swooped at the contact. It was the first time they had ever touched.

Rhaegar Targaryen's name swam on the screen beneath the words _parent/child match_, blurred by her sudden tears. This couldn't be happening. She had dreamt too often of something like this for it to actually come true.

"You're sure?" Sansa asked, her voice cracking. "Really, really sure?"

"I am."

They stared at each other for a beat, and then Jon's arms opened as she leapt towards him. He caught her, holding her tight and close. The icy pavement beneath her stockinged feet barely registered—not when the most impossible thing she'd ever wished for was real, real, _real_. Emotion after emotion cascaded from Jon, until it all became a tangle of _relief-hope-desire-joy_. Burying his face against her neck, he breathed her in.

"Sansa?" Ned called from the kitchen. "Who is it?"

Releasing Jon, Sansa wiped the tears from her face. "Do you want to tell them now?" she asked. At his nod, she shouted back, "It's Jon. He has some news."

* * *

The family gathered in the living room, piling onto the squashy pair of sofas. Sansa's family. Not Jon's, not anymore. Not ever, really. Sansa settled herself next to him, sitting just close enough that their elbows touched. All evidence of her earlier tears had vanished. Jon had no idea how she could look so calm when her emotions were wreaking joyful havoc beneath his sternum.

Robb joined in with the conversation via Sansa's phone, but Arya was still out of reach up in the mountains. She would have to be told later. That was better, Jon thought. Out of all of them, Arya felt the most like his sibling. He wanted to tell her in person, on her own. And as far as breaking the news about the soulmate thing went… Well, that was up to Sansa.

Bracing himself, Jon explained everything in a rush—the affair, the falsified vasectomy evidence, the DNA test—as if getting the words out faster would make the Starks quicker to see him as _not a Stark_.

"Why in the seven hells did your mother believe this Rhaegar Whatsname about anything after she found out about his wife and kids?" Catelyn asked. "He sounds like… Like—"

"Like a fuckboy," Rickon said.

Robb snorted.

"_Rickon Stark_, watch your mouth." Catelyn crossed her arms. "But, yes. That. I _knew_ I should have pushed harder for a blood test."

"I wish you had," Jon said, which seemed to surprise her. "I wish _I_ had, but I believed my mum when she said it couldn't be anyone else."

"So did I," Ned said, his voice tight. "I'd like to have words with _Rhaegar_."

"Get in line," Sansa muttered.

Jon pressed his elbow against hers. She pressed back.

"I'm sorry, Ned," Jon said. "You've been so…" _Kind. Welcoming. A good father, even if I didn__'t want you to be _my_ father._ "I'm sorry you all got dragged into this."

Ned clapped him on the shoulder. "It wasn't your fault."

Closing her eyes, Catelyn rubbed her forehead.

"This sucks," Rickon said. "I liked having you as my brother."

"We all did," Robb said, and Jon almost laughed. Robb certainly hadn't guessed the truth about Jon and Sansa, had he? "Sorry your dad is a f… a what Rickon said."

"I'll still be friends with all of you," Jon said carefully.

Rickon sighed. "Yeah, I guess."

"This explains your dimples, Jon," Bran said, squinting at his phone.

Jon blinked. "What does?"

"Well, Dad doesn't have any, and neither does your mum based on the photos I've seen. But see? Rhaegar Targaryen does." Bran turned the phone around to show a picture of a blond man with the same dimpled grin as Jon. "I always kind of wondered. Dimples are very heritable."

Catelyn's eyes snapped open. "Then why did you never say anything?"

"They're an irregular dominant trait, so there could have been another explanation. At least I think so." Bran shrugged. "I'm not a geneticist, Mum." Looking at his phone again, he added, "Huh. Jon, you have two sisters and a brother, apparently, and one of the sisters is younger than you. If Rhaegar actually did get a vasectomy, it _really_ didn't take."

* * *

Jon gave Sansa and Lady a lift back to the flat. As they drove, Sansa kept kicking herself for never asking whether Ned's paternity had been verified with a blood test. She'd just assumed. She should have started asking questions right there at the bus station, but she'd always shied away from talking about Jon too much, certain everyone would see through her and somehow _know_. Keeping him a secret made her feel transparent.

His car was an old, enormous boat of a thing the same shade of yellow as her front door, and the interior was currently far too silent. What were they supposed to do now? This was uncharted territory; the two of them only knew avoidance and minimal communication. Slowing down as they neared her building, Jon gave her a little smile. There was something very distracting about watching him shift gears.

Cutting the engine, he turned on the bench seat to face her. "When does Arya get back?"

"Tomorrow afternoon. Do… do you want to stay the night?" Sansa's face warmed. "In Arya's room, I mean, so you can be here to talk to her tomorrow."

"Yeah," he said, amusement lighting up the edges of his emotions. "That'd be great, thanks."

It was odd, knowing she would feel that glimmer of amusement from him before it happened. She'd spent so long wrapped in his emotions across the miles, it was as if he had seeped into her bones. Maybe this was why soulmates always progressed from desire to love.

Jon's hand rested next to hers on the seat, their little fingers almost touching. For a long moment, their gazes locked, neither saying a word. A high-pitched _squeak-squeak-squeak_ from the backseat broke the tension.

Jon exhaled a laugh. "I think Lady found one of Ghost's toys."

"You have a dog?"

"Yeah. I adopted him a few months ago." Reaching over the back of the seat, he gave Lady a pat. "I never had any pets growing up, but Lady helped me realise I was a dog person during my first few visits to Winterfell. She and I used to hang out together when I was too worried about running into a certain soulmate to go out and explore the city."

"Really?"

"I've mostly just seen the bus station and the arcade near your parents' house."

"Well, there was never any real danger of seeing me. I drove my friend Jeyne crazy by always wanting to stay in when I slept over at hers during your visits."

One corner of Jon's lips tugged up. "We should have coordinated, so we didn't both have to be hermits the whole time."

"In order to do that, we would have had to actually speak."

"Hmm, true."

They'd been sitting there long enough without the car running that the windows were starting to fog up from their breath. Sansa rubbed her palms over her knees.

"Do you want to see what you've been missing?" she asked. "I could show you around Winterfell."

"All right."

After depositing Jon's things and Lady in the flat, Sansa led him through her favourite parts of the city, down silent side-streets and along the row of old fashioned toy shops with their twinkling window displays. The holiday market was predictably clogged with tourists, so they skirted around the perimeter of it, buying ginger biscuits and cups of hot mulled wine that stained their lips.

As they entered Godswood Park, Jon's knuckles brushed hers, sending goosebumps tingling up her arm that had nothing to do with the weather.

"How do you want to tell my family about… everything?" she asked, turning onto a narrower path with no footprints marring the snow.

"I don't know. It's up to you, really, but I was thinking maybe give them a bit of time to adjust first? They've had a lot to take in with the news about Rhaegar."

"That's true. I don't want to leave it too long, but it's probably best to let things settle a little." Plus, she wanted some time alone with Jon before they had to deal with any drama. "Are you going to meet him? Rhaegar, I mean."

Jon made a face. "I'd like to meet my half-siblings, I think, but the fuckboy? Doubtful."

"Yeah. Can't blame you."

"I haven't really thought about any of that yet, to be honest. The furthest ahead I planned was finding you and telling you about Rhaegar. I would have called, but…"

"But what?"

He grinned. "You blocked me."

"Oh! I forgot about that." Reaching into her coat pocket, she pulled out her phone. "Sorry. It seemed, I don't know. Safer. I was too tempted to ring you after you sent the cough sweets."

Jon's eyebrows shot up. "You did it that long ago? Wow. Then I guess you didn't get my text saying that the song you wrote for my granddad was the most amazing gift anyone had ever given me."

The burst of pride in her chest brought a gentle sort of fondness from him, cloaking her shoulders.

"It was?"

"Yes. So much so that I also said that I thought we shouldn't contact each other anymore." Coming to a stop under a canopy of deep red leaves, he touched her cheek. "I was tempted, too, Sansa."

Standing so close to him, _temptation_ didn't seem a strong enough word. The desire she'd been feeling from him all day throbbed low in her belly, mingling with her own. Beneath the ancient, bone-white weirwood, Jon cradled her face in his hands, leaned in, and kissed her.

It was like seeing him for the first time all over again—like that brand new rush of his emotions. Only, this time, she was free. Free to get lost in the soft, slow movement of his lips against hers. Free to wrap her arms around him. Free to taste the mulled wine on his tongue.

Touching his forehead to hers, he sighed. "I have wanted to do that for so long."

"Me too."

Only the most fleeting thought about all that wasted time troubled her before his mouth was back on hers, making everything outside their little bubble go wonderfully hazy.

"Let's go back to yours," he whispered, taking her hand.

The journey took longer than usual, as both of them kept stopping the other to steal another kiss or five. Each time, they held on a few moments more, his hands stroking up and down her back, her fingers threading through his hair. When they reached the stairwell of her building, Jon took advantage of the privacy, pressing her against the wall, strong arms caging her in. Not that she wanted to escape. How had she lived so long without touching him?

Dragging his lips down her neck, his beard scratching her skin, he unzipped her jacket. One hand moved up her ribcage, settling just under her breast. Jon smiled against her throat when she nudged his hand up that final few inches.

"I've wanted to do this for so long, too," he said, rubbing his thumb over her nipple. "I've wanted _you_ for so long."

Sansa was so far gone, she would have let him have her right there in the stairwell where anyone could stumble across them, if not for one thought.

"Do you have a condom?" she asked.

Jon nodded. "In my bag."

Thank the gods one of them was prepared.

They all but ran up the stairs, Sansa digging in her pocket for her keys before the yellow door was even in sight. Jon stopped only to scoop up the bag he'd left on the sofa earlier before following her into her bedroom.

Sansa's knees wobbled. Between kisses, they helped each other out of their clothes, shaking hands fumbling with zippers and buttons. Seeing the body hidden under all of his layers still felt forbidden, somehow. Like it should be a sight reserved for her most secret daydreams.

Down to just her knickers, Sansa fell back onto the bed. Laying next to her, Jon nipped at her collarbone and trailed his lips down to her chest. The hardness pressing into her leg made her breath hitch.

He paused, drawing back to look into her eyes. "This is real, right? I've had so many dreams like this."

"Are you stopping our foreplay so I can pinch you to prove you aren't asleep?" she asked, sparking a grin from him. She pinched his arse.

"Ow!" It was more of a laugh than an actual protest. When she laughed along with him, he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. His emotions turned so tender, her eyes almost welled up.

"Jon?" she whispered.

"Hmm?"

"I've never done this before."

"Oh. Well, it's not like I have a tonne of experience, either. Just lots of… theory, mostly." Smirking, Jon bent to kiss along her jaw. "All of my experience since I met you has been of the solo variety."

She giggled. "Mine, too."

His cock twitched against her hip. The hand that had been resting on her belly moved lower, brushing back and forth over her waistband. Feather-light touches teased over the fabric of her knickers—not enough to bring any relief, but enough to make her whimper and rub her thighs together. Oh, seven hells, he was going to drive her mad. Biting her lip against the urge to beg, she closed her eyes.

"Look at me, Sansa."

When she did, his hand slipped past the waistband. His touch remained too gentle, but his composure faltered, a groan tumbling from his lips when he encountered heated, wet skin.

"What did you think about when you touched yourself?" he murmured, his fingers _finally_ moving, circling, adding pressure.

Gasping, she arched against his hand. "This," she said, because why pretend the faceless lover she'd always imagined could have been anyone else? "You."

"I thought about you, too. Every time I lay in bed, I pictured you there, letting me touch you, letting me fuck you." His fingers sped up, making Sansa breathe out a moan. "In my mind, I've already bent you over every flat surface in my house. I imagined you on your knees for me—pretended my hand was your mouth. I thought about my mouth on you." He chuckled. "I thought about that a _lot_."

"Me too."

That was all the encouragement he needed to slide down her body, to help her wriggle out of her knickers, to press his mouth to her cunt.

"_Jon_," she whispered. "Oh my gods."

Her imagination hadn't been equal to this. She never could have conjured up the sensation of his tongue bringing her closer and closer to the edge. Their connection intensified everything, his desire feeding into her own with every lick, every suck. Clutching at the sheets, Sansa cried out as the pressure building inside of her shattered into an overwhelming rush of release.

Once she caught her breath, she had every intention of teasing him the way he'd teased her, exploring his body with barely-there touches. But then Jon rose up onto his knees, and the dark promise in the way he looked at her chased away all of her willpower to drag things out. They had waited long enough.

"Condom," she said.

Bounding out of bed so quickly that Sansa had to bite back a laugh, Jon rummaged through his bag until he emerged, triumphant, with a square foil packet.

Her stomach did a somersault as she watched him put it on. Part of her still couldn't believe that she was allowed to see him like this, to open her arms to him and cradle his body between her thighs. Sweeping her hands over his chest, she felt his heartbeat race. Awed disbelief splintered through his emotions, like he, too, was still in a bit of shock that they could be this lucky.

Smiling, Jon rubbed soothing circles on her hip with his thumb. As he guided himself into her, his jaw dropped open, her name spilling from his lips. It was that low, rough sound that made her dig her fingers into his shoulders. He kept making that sound as he moved in her, his thrusts speeding up. Each time, his voice shot straight through her. When he rocked back so he could watch his cock disappearing into her body, Sansa thought she would come apart all over again.

Before she'd met Jon, she'd always thought that soulmates were two halves of one whole, but it wasn't like that at all. Being with him like this wasn't like finding a piece of herself she'd never realised was missing. It was more like finding a place where she would always be safe and protected. Like coming home.

* * *

Sansa had a truly absurd number of pillows. At some point during the night, she'd shoved them all over to one side of the bed and rested her head on Jon's chest instead. The first time he'd woken up, just before dawn, he'd coaxed her from sleep as well, urging her to straddle his hips and ride him. This time, when he opened his eyes he found himself alone on the mountain of pillows. He could still sense her nearby, her emotions happy and light.

Jon padded through the flat, taking in details he hadn't noticed the night before: sheet music spread out over a desk, instrument cases along one wall, a rose made from folded brown postal paper. Strange, how he could have picked it out as Sansa's home even without the pictures of her friends and family scattered around.

Following the scent of bacon and fresh coffee, he found Sansa in the kitchen, messy-haired and smiling. He slipped his arms around her from behind as she cracked an egg into a sizzling pan.

"Morning," he said, kissing her neck.

"Good morning."

There was something warm seeping into her emotions—a new pulse in his chest he'd never before felt from her. Not quite love, but not far off, either. Jon squeezed her tight.

* * *

As soon as Arya bounded into the flat and saw Jon and Sansa sitting together on the sofa, she froze. "What's wrong?" she asked in a suspicious voice.

"Nothing's wrong," Jon said. "I just have some news." Like the night before with the rest of her family, he explained his DNA results.

"Well, that changes nothing. You're still my brother." Arya huffed. "Now, why are you two being so weird?"

Jon and Sansa exchanged a look. So much for giving her time to process.

When Sansa spilled the whole story about them being soulmates, Arya's first response was to punch Jon in the arm for not telling her sooner.

Laughing was probably the wrong reaction, but he did it anyway. He couldn't help it. "Would _you_ have told anyone if you thought your soulmate was your half-sibling?"

Arya snorted. "That is so fucked up. Gods, please tell me you didn't celebrate your unrelated status on the sofa or something. Actually, wait, no, don't answer that. Ignorance is bliss. But from now on, there is a moratorium on making out in any common area of the flat, got it?"

Hope formed a tentative thread through Sansa's emotions. "You're OK with it?"

"I mean, it's really, really weird, and I honestly don't want to think about it too much, but it definitely explains some things. I always thought you avoided him because you hated each other. He always got so grumpy when I brought you up, too. I had to do some reading about soulmates last term, so I know what you must have… Wow. As long as you're happy and I don't have to see any mushy PDA, I can deal. Speaking of which, about that moratorium? I didn't hear either of you agree."

Jon grinned. "It's a deal."

* * *

A month later, Jon sat at the Starks' dining table, sandwiched between Sansa and Arya, his stomach quaking with nerves.

"It'll be fine," Arya whispered. "They want her to be happy, and you make her happy, idiot. Settle down before you remove the need for this conversation by giving yourself a coronary."

"I met my soulmate," Sansa said, just spilling it out there without any preamble. But, honestly, what other way was there to say it?

Catelyn set her fork down. "Really?"

"Yeah. It's been kind of complicated until recently. It happened in the bus station, five years ago."

Catelyn gasped. Her gaze shot to Jon.

"The first time I saw Jon after we first met was when he came here to tell us about Rhaegar," Sansa said. "I'm sorry we never told you. I didn't know how. Still don't, honestly, even though I've been planning this speech for ages. We thought… I don't know. We never actually talked about it. We just avoided each other. Until he got the DNA results."

Heavy silence descended. Jon didn't dare try to interpret the Starks' expressions.

"Holy shit," Rickon said. No one told him to watch his mouth.

"It's… a lot to take in," Ned said.

"It must have been a lot to live with all that time, too," Catelyn said. Maybe it was the fact that Jon still felt like an interloper around her, but in her tone, he heard the words, _Gods, why him?_

"It was," Sansa said. "But we got through it, and now that we know the truth, we're happy."

"They are," Arya said. "It's pretty weird, but you'll get used to it."

"You knew?" Robb asked.

"I've been reading Sansa's diary since I learnt how to read. Of course I knew."

It was a lie, but it lightened the mood ever so slightly. The rest of dinner passed with several comments that veered closer to Arya's reaction (though no one else punched him): _you two seemed like you hated each other_.

Robb and Bran helped out by huddling over the latter's phone and reading out facts about the science of soulmates, until they were reminded that phones were banned at the table. Looking around the room, Jon decided that Arya might have been right. Everyone would need some time to adjust to this shift in their relationship, but they all wanted Sansa to be happy, and they knew what a soulmate connection meant. Based on Sansa's calm mood, she had come to the same conclusion.

Back at Sansa's flat, she hummed the song she'd written for his grandfather as she finished packing her bag for their trip to Dorne. Closing his eyes, Jon listened to her voice harmonising with the joy that beamed from her.

His phone interrupted with an incoming text message from Rhaenys. His sister.

_Hey, can_ _'t wait to meet you both tomorrow morning! Text me when you get to your hotel to let me know you got in safely. Don't worry about how late it is._

Jon smiled. He would not be meeting his sperm donor on this or any other trip, but he would be meeting all three of his siblings. He got the feeling from hints dropped by Aegon and Visenya that their mother had sent Rhaegar packing years before, after discovering one of his other affairs. Jon hoped she was happier now.

Once Sansa was ready, they walked back to where it had all started: the bus station. Jon squeezed her hand as they passed by Bay 12, where the bus from Hardhome was letting out a stream of passengers.

"Are you nervous?" Sansa asked as they boarded the airport shuttle bus.

Jon laughed. "You'd know if I was, love."

"Oh, you know what I mean." She chose a pair of seats near the middle, settling in next to the window. "I hope everything goes well. Rhaenys seems so nice."

"She does."

Nestling into his side, Sansa frowned. "You know, there's one thing we haven't discussed."

"What's that?"

"What in the seven hells are we going to say when people ask how we met?"


End file.
